David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“In Connecticut?”

His face dropped. “New York. Why, is that a problem?”

“Now that you’ve established your residency here you’ll want to swing by Dorset Town Hall and apply for a local pistol permit. Once you get that you can apply for one from the state-if you want to be in complete compliance, I mean.”

“Oh, he does,” Rondell assured her. “Absolutely.”

“Are there any other weapons around?”

“No, ma’am,” said Clarence, who would not go down in history as one of the world’s great liars.

Chantal still had not let go of Des’s wrist. Des’s fingers were getting numb. “ Promise me you’ll watch out for my boy!”

“There won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Grantham. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Des smiled at her reassuringly. “And it just so happens that I do.”

Bond’s Auto Mall, the state’s highest volume General Motors dealership-“ Just ask Justy! ”-was a mammoth cluster of airplane hangar-sized showrooms surrounded by acres and acres of sleek, shiny new cars and trucks. Mitch felt like a member of the Joad family when he pulled in there in his old Studey. Everywhere he looked rows of digital-age rides were gleaming in the Indian Summer sun. American rides, Japanese, German, Swedish-you could find pretty much anything at Bond’s Auto Mall.

Except for customers. Mitch didn’t see a living soul anywhere.

His cell phone rang as he was parking.

“Hey, hey, Boo Boo!” a familiar voice hollered in his ear. “I tried you at home. You weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I’m out running errands, Pop. What’s going on?”

“Wanted to let you know we’re all set to head out there tomorrow. I’m picking up our rental car this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you just take the train out? I can pick you up at the station and drive you to your bed and breakfast.”

“Nah, we like to come and go as we please. Do you mind if we get an early start in the morning? I’d like to beat the traffic.”

“Not a problem. I’m always up early.” Mitch reached across the seat for the open bag of Utz potato chips and stuffed a generous handful in his mouth. “How did your appointments go?”

“My what?”

“You said you had appointments.”

His father fell silent. Which was not like him. “We can talk about it when we get there. We… have a lot to talk about.”

“Sure thing, Pop,” Mitch responded, feeling his chest tighten as he hung up. Grapefruit-sized tumor. There was now zero doubt in his mind that he’d be hearing those words tomorrow. The only question was which one of them had it.

He calmed himself, or tried, and went looking for June Bond. Tried two different showrooms but couldn’t locate anyone. Not only were there no customers but every salesman’s cubicle was empty, too. Mitch was beginning to think he’d wandered into an old episode of The Twilight Zone when he finally spotted a young janitor vacuuming the office rugs in the third showroom he tried. As Mitch approached him he realized that the young janitor was June.

The heir to Bond’s Auto Mall was quick to notice him. It was awful hard to miss another warm body in that barren wasteland. June shut off the vacuum and loped across the showroom toward Mitch, looking super-preppy in his polo shirt, khakis and Top-Siders. “Hey, good to see you, bro,” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid I have to do a little bit of everything around here these days. People just aren’t buying cars. Plus this isn’t your father’s GM, Mitch. We’re staring at a future without Saturn, Olds, Pontiac and Hummer. We’ve shrunk our full-time sales and office staff, laid off mechanics. We used to have a custodial crew come in every night to tidy up. Now guess who we have?”

“That would be you?”

“Ka-ching.” June was acting very upbeat about it. And yet, Mitch noticed, he had dark worry circles under his eyes. “What can I do for you? Don’t tell me you’re finally giving up on your Studey.”

“Not a chance,” Mitch said as June’s father, Justy, came strutting into the showroom from the service department. He went into a glassed-in office, sat behind the desk and got busy on the telephone, watching the two of them intently through the glass. “I ran into Callie this morning. She seemed kind of upset.”

June eyed him curiously. “She sent you here?”

“Callie has no idea I’m here.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because she told me you want to take off on the Calliope right away. And want her to quit the academy and come with you. And that it’s all real sudden and urgent and she doesn’t know why.”

June ran a hand through his mop of hair, swallowing. “It’s not something I can talk to her about.”

“Why not?”

“Because she won’t understand. Listen, I can talk to you, right? You won’t go running back to Callie with every word I say, will you?”

“Whatever you tell me stays between us. Scout’s honor.”

June glanced over in the direction of his father’s office. “We’d better make this look like a work thing.” He fished around in the pocket of his khakis for a set of keys. “Come on, let’s take a Silverado out for a test drive.” He led Mitch out the door and across an acre of pavement toward a row of huge, shiny new Chevy pickups. “If you actually are interested in a new truck we’re practically giving them away right now. Factory incentives up the wazoo.”

“I’m pretty attached to my Studey.”

“Sure, I understand. Can’t say I blame you.”

“Not exactly Mister Hard Sell, are you?”

“I’m not Mister Sell, period. I hate trying to convince people to buy something that they truly don’t need. At least half of our new car and truck sales are to customers who already own perfectly serviceable vehicles. But thanks to Madison Avenue they get it into their heads that they need, need, need to trade up. It’s totally insane.”

“You’d better not let your dad hear you talk like that. You’re spouting pure blasphemy.”

“Believe me, I’ve done much worse.” June came to a halt before a shiny blue behemoth. “He’s watching us through the showroom window right now. Pretend you’re interested in my spiel, okay? This here’s your new Silverado 2500 HD. It’s got a choice of a Duramax 6.6 liter turbo-diesel or your standard 360 horsepower Vortec 6.0 liter V-8. It has a six-speed automatic transmission, four-wheel anti-lock brakes, air bags…”

“Nice color,” Mitch offered encouragingly. It was all he could think of.

“That’s the Imperial Blue metallic finish. The interior’s light titanium with dark titanium accents.” June swung the driver’s door open for him. “Hop in.”

Mitch climbed in behind the wheel. The cab’s interior was as cushy and carpeted as somebody’s living room. And the wood-trimmed dashboard was so loaded with high-tech controls that it made his bare bones Studey look like a museum piece.

“You’ve got cup holders here, here, here and here,” June said, climbing in next to him. “This right here controls your air conditioning…”

“Wow, it has air conditioning?”

“And this is your heat…”

“Wow, it has heat?”

“This particular model has an MP3-compatible CD player, XM radio, a USB port, Bluetooth and the OnStar Safe and Sound plan.”

“June, this truck is better equipped than my house.”

“If you opt for the crew cab you can just roll out your sleeping bag in the backseat and you’re home.” June’s face fell. “God, I truly suck at this, don’t I?”

“You’re doing fine. But it helps if you believe in the product you’re selling.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He handed Mitch the keys. “Let’s ride.”